


Home at the end of the road

by emocsibe



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: "That’s when Goodnight, finally, snaps out of his reverie and looks closer. He is not sure if he has ever seen the man, his figure is too familiar, his face still hidden, but he feels a pull towards him. Renard jumps up and trots to the man’s legs, bouncing around him in a tight circle, halting him in his steps, jumping wildly then sitting in front of him once he stops. The man looks questioningly at him, at this strange Daemon, who is not only willing to leave his human to interact with a stranger, but who is, currently pawing at his boots, eyes shining with mischief. He looks around, but there’s only one patron sitting close, without a Daemon at his side, looking just as surprised as he himself feels. The man at the table is familiar in a way he cannot place, the air around him is something he feels he already knows, but the face is alien."





	Home at the end of the road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoelacanthKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoelacanthKing/gifts).



> I wish you Happy Holidays, CoelacanthKing, and hope that your next year will be fantastic!

 

It begins with an idiot and a tavern brawl.

 

Goodnight is sitting at the table closest to the window, the ale swirling forgotten in his glass, his eyes directed towards the setting sun outside, but damned be if he remembers any of the reds and yellows of it. He is trying to blink himself out of this strange reverie that has overtaken him some minutes or an hour ago, but it doesn’t really help. It feels wrong, to pay attention to something specific when there’s this lukewarm feeling filling his stomach all day, this anticipation that borders on apprehension, the surety that today it will change.

What is this ‘it’, you may ask, but it’s in vain, for Goodnight himself is not sure about it, and most unsettlingly, Renard also has no clue about it. He, just opposing Goodnight, has been observing around his human all day, trying to pick out the moment, the person, the event that has been weighing Goodnight down. This far, the fox has seen nothing strange or new, only the usual patronage of the Dusty Ale and their Daemons following in their wake. It has been an unusually uneventful afternoon, and yet, both man and Daemon feel just as stressed out as they felt in the trenches. Goodnight shivers at the memory and Renard butts his head against his leg.

“It’s okay. Goodnight, it’s okay” he says and he means it. Whatever shall come, he will be here, protecting his human from others, and if need be, from himself.  

“It must be the nerves” Goodnight hums, his eyes still fixed on the nothing halfway between the dirty glass and the sun’s disappearing face, and he wishes he was out if this frozen state, wishes that he could lift his glass and drink the ale, wishes that this goddamned sonofabitch something would finally happen. He knows that his nervousness can be measured, and knows what he can or can’t hide from other folks, and now, he knows that he’s balancing between his broken sanity and a pit of hell that is reserved for him and him alone.

This is when someone enters the building with a heavy sigh of a man on the road for too long. He has black hair and dark shadows cast on his face by his hat, and ragged clothes that tell of hardships and endurance. His walk is sure, but his hands are shaking. He orders something at the bar, head hung low, voice too silent to carry as far as where Goodnight and Renard are sitting. The barkeep flinches and makes such a sound that Goodnight instinctively snaps his head up. There is a frown and on the barkeep’s face, and malice in his eyes. The newcomer slumps his shoulders and shakes his head slowly, then turns towards the door, the intent to exit clear in how he never once looks back.

That’s when Goodnight, finally, snaps out of his reverie and looks closer. He is not sure if he has ever seen the man, his figure is too familiar, his face still hidden, but he feels a pull towards him. Renard jumps up and trots to the man’s legs, bouncing around him in a tight circle, halting him in his steps, jumping wildly then sitting in front of him once he stops. The man looks questioningly at him, at this strange Daemon, who is not only willing to leave his human to interact with a stranger, but who is, currently pawing at his boots, eyes shining with mischief. He looks around, but there’s only one patron sitting close, without a Daemon at his side, looking just as surprised as he himself feels. The man at the table is familiar in a way he cannot place, the air around him is something he feels he already knows, but the face is alien.  

“Are they yours” he asks, his voice low and calm, more of a statement than not, pointing at the fox around his left leg.

“Yeah” Goodnight manages “Renard. He usually keeps his distance.”

Goodnight is still sitting at the table, and Renard is now sitting on the man’s foot, and Goodnight panics for a moment when the strangers bends down.

He has too many knives on him. Sharp knives.

And he pets Renard, scratches under his chin and smiles.

His smile is soft and small and it feels like a bullet to the chest for Goodnight.

“You wanna drink something?” he asks and the man shakes his head in turn. He then shrugs towards the barkeep, whose eyes are just a bit duller than those knives around the newcomer’s hips. Nice waist. Nice hips. Goodnight shakes himself. Not the time or the place, let alone, not the right man. Armed men are a gamble, and he doesn’t like to bet too much. Doesn’t like to bet his damn life on an hour of a roughness he could do without, but to which he is required to adhere to whenever someone takes any interest in him. He doesn’t want that.

“We could go somewhere and drink from my private collection. Finest one in my saddle. Renard here is never wrong on a man’s character and he clearly has taken a shine to you. I’ve been avoided all day in this forsaken town and I wouldn’t mind some talkin’ around now.”

The man stares at him, his eyes – so dark, so deep, Goodnight feels so fucking lost and he doesn’t even know anything about him, Lord have mercy – unmoving and curious. Then he shifts his gaze to Renard, and lets out a small huff of barely there laughter.

“Well, your Daemon is a fox. Not exactly a sign of being trustworthy” he says, but there is a smile remaining from the laugh on his lips, and he looks so sublime that Goodnight wants to bow his head in front of him.

“That’s such a negative view, my friend. I simply tend to exaggerate from time to time. Makes your storytelling more vivid, and your bad memories bearable.”

The man nods his head in understanding, and leans down again to pet the fox, and to gently guide him off of his foot, when others enter the tavern, and stumble to the bar. They have clearly been practicing drinking all day long, but they still order, and based on the looks they throw over their shoulders, they are clearly talking to the bartender. Based on the look they aim at the man, still trying to get free of a too friendly fox, they are talking about him.

When they move, Goody moves, Renard jumps and the man stands up to his full height. There is a fearful second when Goodnight is looking at the threat that is the five men behind the newcomer, when the man is looking at Goodnight and understands, and when the first of the five touches his shoulder.

In the next moment there is blood, there are knives, fists, and knees meeting tender parts, and Goodnight feels like looking at the snake-haired Medusa from his ma’s mythology books. He cannot help it, he is frozen by the sight of the blood, but he watches, and oh sweet heavens, he doesn’t have the time for his panic now. He really doesn’t. But the panic never listens.

And thus, he’s still standing there, his fingers shaking around the glass of whiskey, but the man walking up to him knows that there is no power in those fingers now. He shakes out his long, black hair, and swipes off the sweat and blood from his forehead. He stops next to the scared Goodnight, and with steady hands, he takes away his drink and grabs his palms. They are sweaty, although the man has not moved since his abrupt stand, yet so awfully cold in the current heat, that the stranger’s eyes close in sympathy for a moment. The next, there is a loud screech from the porch, and Goodnight almost faints, for it sounds too much like the nightmares that keep him from sleeping more nights than not.

“Let’s get going. Ji-Yeong says it’s departure time. Name’s Billy by the way” the man says, low and almost slow, but it hits Goodnight in the chest. The man – Billy – wants him to go with him? A stranger? Although, he admits it to himself, he couldn’t seem like much of a threat. Renard headbutts his right leg and Goody, still on shaken legs with a more shake up soul, stumbles ahead, and Billy catches his elbows.

“Can’t wait, man. We should leave, and quick” Billy urges him again, and Goodnight nods. He can’t word what has come over him, or why Renard wants him to go with Billy, but if there’s anything the war has taught him was to trust his Daemon more than his common sense and that tricky little bastard in his head that sounds almost like the Goodnight twenty years ago. So, he steps over a hand, and almost as if a trance, he follows Billy to their horses, and they are out of the town in minutes without a hitch of a trouble.  

 

***

 

What has begun with an idiot and a tavern brawl, continues with a journey.

 

After that dusty, poor excuse of a town, Goodnight expects Billy to part ways from him. He expects him to just nod his head and take off to the other direction Goodnight himself is heading, but the goodbye never comes. Billy trails his horse beside his own, and when they stop for the night, Ji-Yeong rests on Goodnight's saddle. Renard, in return, sleeps somewhere between their beddings, and whenever Billy decides to walk over to Goodnight and share his cigarettes and drink, he lifts his head to get ear scratches. Goodnight almost feels jealous of how quickly Billy has earned Renard's trust, but well, at least his travelling companions have nothing against each other, which is nice. The whole travelling with Billy and Ji-Yeong thing is nice. Nicest thing in forever, it feels like. There is something deep inside him that is almost an ache, but it does not hurt, no; it’s more like a crumbling hole in the dry dirt. He knows the feeling, has been familiar with it since Noah and their kiss and his own broken nose afterwards, and the great emptiness that followed all of these. But Billy has never shared a kiss with him, has not looked at him like someone who wants to kiss him, so Goodnight feels utterly confused. Why would he feel the same heartache for Billy than for Noah, whom he knew all his life? Ji-Yeong screeches and flies down, perches on Goodnight’s shoulder, not caring about how hard and sudden the man flinches at the sound and the motion. Goodnight offers a weak smile for the bird, and shakes his head at his own paranoia, his demons he can’t purge from his head. He has been seeing dark shapes flying around his periphery, has been hearing sharp and loud noises and seen eyes golden white like the flash of his old rifle. He has always thought that these shapes were owls, souls he has killed returned to haunt him and hound his sleep, and thus, owl has become a sign he despises from the depth of the soul he sometimes doubts he still possesses. And then Ji-Yeong was brought into his life by Billy Rocks, and since then, owls have shed their morbid hunter-coats in Goodnight’s eyes. Ji-Yeong is protective, always looking out for Billy, and since Goodnight travels with them, for him as well in extension. Ji-Yeong is a beautiful barn owl, eyes just as dark as Billy’s, feathers light brown, almost white around his beak. During the day, he loves hiding or resting on one of the saddles, and during the night he guards their sleep – and as if he knew what is ailing Goodnight, he often flies close to him to show himself, and to shield him from the vision of all the other owls, prowling just out of reach and out of reality. After the first few times Billy witnesses his Daemon fly to Goodnight when he’s trashing on the ground, bedsheet around his legs and waist, hands shaking close to his chest, so afraid and so vulnerable, he also takes up on himself to wake the man. First, it’s with a hesitant touch to his arm, then a grip around his wrist, then, so many nights later, it’s a gentle touch on his cheek. Billy also sees how Renard often sleeps just as restless as his human counterpart, how his ears twitch back and forth as a reaction to something horrible he must be seeing – and since Billy has started looking out for Goodnight, Ji-Yeong has taken up the role of comforting the fox instead of his human. He usually flies close to Renard, and hoots a few before touching his beak against the fox’s head, ruffling the fur and waking Renard. That’s how the dawning hours usually find them on the road: Billy holding Goodnight’s hand, whispering him whatever seems to be calming down the man at the time, and Ji-Yeong making his own, comforting noises next to Renard, with the fox only looking up with fatigue in his pale eyes.

Aside from the nightly routine of fighting their ghosts together, they quickly take to living together, on the go; Billy makes some amazing coffee even from that cheap blend they can allow themselves in small shops, and Goodnight makes a mean stew out of scratch. They are usually as awake as they can get after only a few hours of sleep, and their belly is never empty to the point where it hurts, but they can’t really allow themselves more of a comfort provided by these factors. So, being amazed by how well this companionship has turned out, they look for comfort at other places: a shared cigar, a shared bottle of whiskey, a shared kiss under the dark sky, a shared night-time under the same blanket, and somehow, it's only right like that.

 

***

 

What has been a journey towards an unknown goal, is now a journey towards a home they have already built in their hearts.

There is comfort within Goodnight’s flesh and bones, and his heart is beating a pace he has not welcomed in quite some time: he is calm. Maybe it’s because he just woke up after an undisturbed shut-eye, or maybe it’s because he is resting his head on Billy’s thigh, facing his bare feet. His trousers wrinkle under Goodnight’s chest and his fingers are splayed over Goodnight’ back, and he barely moves. Goodnight isn’t even sure if Billy breathes, but then his little toe twitches. Goodnight smiles, and turns his face a bit, only to feel that he’s here, in this scene, in this moment, this close to Billy. He also feels the heat of Renard against his calves, and he knows that Ji-Yeong must be somewhere near, maybe perched on the shady tree they are all under.

He hears the rustle of paper, feels the caress of fingers in his hair, the heat of the sun, the heaviness of his eyelids, and he thinks that if there is a heaven, it must be just like this. He closes his eyes and starts humming a small song that his ma’ used to sing him, and that is one of his best memories of all time. Now, with Billy at his side, it’s so close to that childhood haven of safety and comfort, it’s as close to a home as he will ever get, Goodnight knows that, and he values it as such. In the months he has spent with Billy out there, traveling, that has been the building of the foundation, and this is it now: his home. The man himself, the feeling of love, the caring, the soft touches and the small smiles, the talks and the silences, they are all walls and windows and doors, holding an awful lot of happiness within themselves. Life like this was not what his parents wanted for him, but then the war came, his pretence crumbled, his inheritance was shed from him, and now he is happier than in any scenario they could have put him into. He is thankful for Billy, for his friendship, his affection and his endless patience, and the fact that the man once decided to stay, and the decided again and again, no matter how raw Goodnight cried his throat after his nightmares, or how bad his mood could get from his war flashbacks.  

And of course, there is the time they spend on horseback, always talking – they have peculiar pasts that could fill many a conversations, yet they leave those topics for the campfires and the dusty hotel rooms where they can sleep in the same bed, knowing that the door is locked tight. While on the go, they talk about the present and the future, they talk about their Daemons, their habits that sometimes make the laugh, and sometimes makes them look at each other with sadness carved into their smiles. And of course, after a while, after their love is not new, but not less uplifting than it was in the first weeks, they talk about a shared future. There is a cabin they imagine, out where people don’t tread normally, and where they can find the last bits of calmness and quiet they long for; where they can kiss each other without having to look all directions first, where they can be who they are. A place where Goodnight can be quiet and definitely not a soldier, and where Billy can be as open as he wants, and definitely not under control – it sounds close to a dream woven out of nonsense, but they keep on hoping. But before they can build that, they need money, they need a place where this dream can be realised, so they keep on traveling around, keep on looking and living.

Now, as the fire crackles at the centre of their poor camp, and as the watery coffee cools in their cups, Goodnight can think of how lucky he is. He has been following a fox, has become a fox himself in nature to survive, to make himself safe and grant himself enough time for whatever role life would have him fulfil. He has thought for the longest time that his roles was that of a soldier, a killer, but after h survived the war, he realised that it wasn’t his fate. Maybe, he wonders, maybe fate has some happy years in store for him, maybe he can have enough time to purge his night terrors, to breathe freely again and not smell gunpowder, to dream easy and not see dead mates. Since his discharge, he has been looking for a reason, and yet, his reason was the one that found him. Now he's here, snuggled up to a man's chest, a man who is as gentle and soft as the figures were in Goodnight's deepest, most treasured dreams of his youth; a welcome change from his one night stands and rough adventures borne out of desperation. He feels lucky and so much in love, that he has to touch Billy, has to pull away the hem of his shirt and kiss his neck, his chest, to whisper his feelings against Billy's fingers that trace his mouth. He smiles against them and then smiles up at Billy. The man’s smiles are rare and much treasured, and usually the only laugh is in his eyes and not on his mouth, yet he is smiling back now, and Goodnight feels like the luckiest man ever. He is alive, Billy is alive, and somewhere there is a cabin in the woods that only needs to be built and lived in. There is a patch of land that awaits their arrival, that will be their home and their grave, that will see their happiest and saddest moments, that will grant them the rest and peace they crave. He is here with Billy, the road leads wherever they want to go, and he loves how free that feels.

He might have a fox as his Daemon, but he has never enjoyed his own nature – he hates hiding his terrors, hates to brag about kills that murder his soul each time he is reminded, and he hates lying off his arse just to get around and save some money on food and drinks. He hates playing on his ill-earned fame to live, but he would hate dying more. He deceives people into thinking that he is that hero, that myth they have heard about. The angel of death, the one who shot twenty-three men, who made twenty-three mothers cry and who has twenty-three owls following him around since. That people might not to hear about his guilt, is clear, yet they would soak up his talent, his boasted tales of success and victory – only Goodnight knows that victory lies elsewhere and not in his kills. Victory is being free, and he hates his past, hates that he was fighting against freedom. Billy is usually quiet when Goodnight drinks much and he talks about the war and his deeds, his regrets and the guilt that gnaws at his guts when he tells him how he lives for freedom, yet he killed to prevent  the same thing. But sometimes, Billy will talk, will tell him about his own past, his own bloodshed, and his fights. He tells Goodnight that people change, that realising a mistake is a good start. Goodnight talks about Sam Chisolm, about a man just as willing to look under the blue uniform and the blood as Billy is willing to look past the trembling hands and the haunted looks. He tells Billy about a friendship that dragged his head out of his arse, a friendship that built some of the man he wishes to be. Billy smiles and kisses his hand around this part, tremors ignored, and he whispers that he’d like to thank this man for helping Goodnight. There is a softer side to Billy Rocks that only a few know, Goodnight being allowed to see the most of it, and he loves the tenderness in his lover’s eyes, feel it in his touches, absorb it from his kisses. Aside from softness, there is a wisdom that his lover hides behind his silence most of the time, but whenever Goodnight needs it, Billy will say something that helps – and if words don’t cut it, well, then he finds different methods.

He sighs into Billy’s mouth one afternoon, coffee cold, his affection burning his lungs and his stomach, their brief kiss a fleeting moment of heaven. He is happy, and Billy is also smiling, his book put aside, arms around Goodnight’s waist as they watch the sun set. It’s terribly romantic and calm, but neither of them misses the towns and the fights and Goodnight most certainly doesn’t miss Billy risking his life for some money. No – he would never miss that, but he knows he will miss this scene, this calamity, this warmth that feels like happiness. Renard and Ji-Yeong are nearby, the fox running around the campfire, and the owl follows him up in the air, their movements in synchrony, their figures a perfect mirror image, a perfect balance, and Goodnight and Billy can only smile at them. They feel the same connection, the same pull towards each other, the same harmony and trust their Daemons radiate. Goodnight wishes for this to never end, for him to be able to turn his back to society and live with Billy in such a peace as surrounds them now.

 

Pity that wishes don’t always come true: Sam asks for his help, and Goodnight would go to hell and back for his friend, een if it meant dying. 

 

What has begun with an idiot and a tavern brawl ends with seven heroes and a fight for life, doling out death and freedom for those that see the next day.

 

Goodnight would gladly die if it meant giving people their freedom back, but he doesn’t die, and neither does Billy. It is a miracle that they open their eyes to the gentle prodding of a fox, and a not so gentle nip of an owl’s beak, but miracles do happen. Bones are broken, blood has been shed, but they are alive, the both of them, and in the end, that is the only thing that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to get familiar with the concept of Daemons, but I can't claim I've managed to gather too much info about it, so I can only hope this wasn't too much of a disappointment.


End file.
